


Point and Shoot

by mickie



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, M/M, implied blood play
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-15
Updated: 2020-05-15
Packaged: 2021-03-02 17:55:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 970
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24190906
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mickie/pseuds/mickie
Summary: A different version of Sherlock's rescue from Serbia at the start of S3.
Relationships: Mycroft Holmes/Jim Moriarty, Mycroft Holmes/Sebastian Moran, Sebastian Moran/Jim Moriarty
Comments: 6
Kudos: 28





	Point and Shoot

**Author's Note:**

  * For [fabricdragon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/fabricdragon/gifts).



> This is my entry for a four-prompt challenge that fabricdragon and I decided to do. Prompts are rain, scarlet, cobblestone, and eagle. Please stay safe out there.

**Point and Shoot**

Mycroft and Colonel Moran waited until two soldiers came out of the building with umbrellas and escorted them up a cobblestone walkway and into the remote Serbian army outpost. That was protocol, always important, and Mycroft didn’t fancy getting wet even though the rain was not heavy. Their driver, Maryse, a non-verbal woman from the Netherlands, would wait in the car.

Mycroft was supposedly a major general and Colonel Moran a colonel in the 72nd Brigade, the Serbian special forces. The man looked the part and, if Mycroft hadn’t been given assurances of the man’s loyalty to Moriarty, he would be terrified. He could see why Moran had been discharged from SAS but knew that Britain had made a mistake. Weak leadership was a problem in the military. It was no surprise that the man had ended up with Moriarty.

Moriarty. As they walked down a dingy hallway, Mycroft’s thoughts flashed to three nights prior. Pleasure. Pain. Moriarty’s straight razor. Sex. Scarlet blood on pale skin. Danger. Mind searing ecstasy. Mycroft clamped those thoughts away and focused on the patch on Moran’s shoulder. The eagle or hawk of the 72nd Brigade seemed to come to life and demand flesh to rend.

Someone said something. Supply lines. Mycroft willed his mind to process the words and replied arrogantly in Serbian with hints of Prizren-Timok dialect. He found that dialect easiest to mask the fact that he wasn’t a native speaker. Command, poise, and arrogance would get him through. If not, then Colonel Moran and his ever-ready bullets would have to suffice. The commander of this outpost has supposedly gone rogue so it didn’t matter.

Mycroft blathered on pompously while watching Moran out of the corner of his eye. Another of Moriarty’s lovers. Moriarty was casual with them just as Moran was casual with his violence. As Mycroft discussed conveyance and transport, logistics, and inventory management, he wondered what it would be like to spend a night with the colonel. He wasn’t sure if that thought frightened him or turned him on.

They reached a cell. Sherlock. Mycroft felt his heart start to pound. Moran crisply demanded to know what the prisoner had done and what information had been obtained. Mycroft felt his stomach curdle and was grateful that he didn’t have to do this part. Moran seemed to relish the graphic descriptions. Mycroft steeled himself.

Moran ordered them to put the prisoner in the boot of their car. There was a glint in the man’s eye that terrified Mycroft. One of the soldiers with them retrieved a key from his pocket but the commander resisted. Moran leaned towards Mycroft and whispered slowly, in Bengali, “None of them matter.” Mycroft shuddered at the certainty of what was going to happen.

Before Mycroft could inhale, the colonel shot the camera, the commanding officer, and the two guards with them. Mycroft snatched the key and quickly freed Sherlock. He vaguely heard Moran arming himself with their weapons while he pulled Sherlock to his feet. His brother was feverish, incoherent, and couldn’t stand unassisted.

Colonel Moran picked up Sherlock with one arm and shifted him into a fireman’s carry before handing Mycroft two pistols. This time Mycroft was able to take a deep breath as he put one in his uniform jacket. Zastava CZ 99. Very similar to the SIG P226. He’d fired those at the range. Once. Before removing himself from field work. “Point and shoot,” the colonel said in the same manner as he’d said that none of them mattered. It felt like a seduction. Point and shoot. Two truths that meant the difference between life and death.

They started moving back the way they came. Even carrying Sherlock and shooting effortlessly, Moran moved quickly. Like an eagle. Mycroft saw movement to the right. Point and shoot. Blood spray. The color was brighter than the scarlet on Moriarty’s lips. He remembered the feel of Moriarty’s hands on him and trembled.

“Magazine has fifteen rounds,” Moran said and the words jolted Mycroft back to the present. He didn’t have time to see if the man that he’d shot had fallen but he knew that his aim had been good and he’d probably killed a man. Sherlock mattered. They continued moving towards the exit. Mycroft shot every time he saw movement. Two. And he counted each shot. Three. Four. Time seemed to slow. Five.

The door seemed so far away and his breathing was becoming ragged. There were two soldiers blocking the front door. They weren’t looking in their direction. Six. Moran got the other one. Moran probably got them both but Mycroft’s bullet hit the man as well. The colonel cracked open the door and then chuckled. He tipped his head indicating that they could proceed.

The sight that greeted his eyes as the door opened was surreal. It was still raining softly but Maryse stood on the passenger side with an umbrella and began opening the doors for them. Lining the cobblestone walkway, neatly arranged two on each side, were four bodies of soldiers. “Well done,” Moran said to her while carefully depositing Sherlock in the back seat. She nodded professionally. Mycroft decided that he liked her. She seemed competent.

Mycroft pulled up close to get in but when Moran turned, he looked into the man’s eyes. The thank you that he’d been about to utter evaporated into oblivion. Colonel Moran’s eyes were the color and intensity of blue ice. The bottom of a glacier. Not the sunny or porcelain blue of most other people’s eyes. These were the cold, hard, diamond blue of a killer. Mycroft refused to be intimidated even if his knees felt weak and his pulse accelerated. 

Moran leaned forward and, against his lips, whispered words that felt like a knife through Mycroft’s heart. “Maybe later…”


End file.
